LIFE SENTENCE
DYING TO LIVE BOOK TWO
Kim Paffenroth
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Chapter 1
It's funny, the things you remember, and even funnier, the things you think you remember but aren't sure. So many times, I'll ask my parents or someone else about something I think I remember—a place we went, a summer night by the river, a neighbor's dog or cat—only I can't quite remember who the people were or exactly how old I was at the time, or some other detail. I give every piece of information I can—the clothes we were wearing, what the weather was, or the smells (I always remember the smells vividly and perfectly, I think)—but they shake their heads and say they're sorry, they don't remember. It's not that they simply can't recall the lost detail I'm searching for—the whole scene doesn't exist for them, even the parts I've described.
Sometimes they'll laugh and say it's just a funny trick our minds play on us, and they don't just mean that it's funny in the sense of odd or strange, but really that it's funny, that it makes you laugh. I know they mean well, but I don't think it's funny in that way, because I see how much our memories make us who we are, make us different from one another, make us miserable or happy. They're funny in a way that makes me angry sometimes, because I can't help the things I remember, and I certainly can't help the things I've forgotten or the things I never knew. I didn't get to pick what goes in which category, and neither did anyone else, unless they've willfully lied to themselves, which seems to me a terrible and dehumanizing act. I'll never think this haphazard kind of memory is fair—let alone the laughing kind of funny—because it's not, and because it's hurt so many people I know.
The older people, they remember the world the way it used to be, and the memory usually hurts them. It's where they belong, really, and this is all some bad second half to their existence, an exile in a strange and terrible place that they shuffle through, mostly for the sake of the younger people like me, I think. And even though their obvious pain makes us want to hold them and love them and take the hurt away, we can't, because it's not ours to bear, or even understand. Never mind all the hundreds or thousands of people they saw torn into screaming, bleeding meat—a memory the youngest of us have been spared—it's their memories from before all the horrors that really separate them from us. We don't know what a "real" root beer float tastes like, or what makes a "real" Fourth of July or a "real" Christmas so different from the ones we have now, or any of the thousand other things they recollect while shaking their heads wistfully, while we just look at them and blink and wish we could love them enough to make them forget. But they don't, and we can't. And I don't think memories that anguish and separate people like that are very funny at all.
My mom and dad—Sarah and Jack are their names—they have those memories, like all the older people—like Jonah and Tanya, whom I called "uncle" and "aunt" when I was much younger, and then "Mr. Caine" and "Ms. Wright" when I got a little older. I don't like to say Mom and Dad aren't my "real" parents, though that's how some people say it. Their love has always been completely real to me, as real and overwhelming as hunger or thirst or death itself, and I don't ever want to say anything to take away from that. They're not my biological parents is what I mean; both of my biological parents died long before anything I can remember. I've been told that my mom died when I was born, and my dad was murdered by very evil men when I was just a baby. I've been told about my dad many times, about how kind and brave he was.
I have a single picture of my parents. They look so young in it, in their twenties, about the age that I am now, as I write this. They look alive and happy and free in that picture, but all those feelings are trapped in the past, even for the ones who were "lucky" enough to keep on living after the dead rose and the world they knew died. My parents and the others look at a picture like that and they see a door they'd climb through if they could; I see a window on a world I never knew, a world that has as little reality or relevance to me as a fossil or a diorama in the museum where we used to live when I was little, when the dead still controlled most of the area.
For the people my age or younger, like Tanya's daughter, Vera, or my brother, Roger (as with my parents, I try not to preface his relationship with "step—," as I've known and loved him as a sibling my whole life, and he certainly grated and annoyed me as a child just like a "real" brother would), this is the only world we've known. We have a good life, I think. The people I love are in this world, this "real" world, and wishing for something else or something better seems disloyal to them. Perhaps even worse, it seems ungrateful. Being ungrateful is selfish and childish, and we all have tried hard to learn not to be like that. In fact, growing up and putting away childish things is a big part of the story I am telling now, the story of the things that happened that summer when I was twelve years old.
Once Milton started to herd the living dead away from us, when I was still a baby, our lives got much safer. Even today, no one knows how he had the power to repel the dead with his presence, but some would call it a miracle for our survival; anyone being appropriately grateful, I think, would at least call it a blessing or a gift.
The first people in our community had all been living in the old museum by the river, walled in and safe, but unable to move about and always worrying that the dead might break in and make us all eternally hungry and awake and mindless. Over the years, as we took more land back from the dead, we met other survivors. They had all found some secure, defensible place, like we had with the museum. Some were in an observatory at the top of a mountain, some had occupied a monastery deep in the woods, and some were on an island in a big lake. A handful of people had lived in some barricaded buildings in a nearby town, hopping from roof to roof across bridges they had built, as I am told my biological father did when I was first born.
They found another group in a huge building full of all kinds of things; the older people said it was called a "mall," and they laughed because they had found people there. They tried to explain why it was funny, because some old movies had people hiding in a mall when there were zombies outside. I still didn't get the joke, but people have often told me I don't have much of a sense of humor. Sometimes they say it ruefully, because they say I used to laugh a lot when I was a baby.
Each of these new groups became a part of our community, though we had few formal rules. My dad explained to me that when they had lived in the museum, he and Milton had more or less led the group, and they'd had many more rules. But with so much land cleared of the hungry dead, plenty of room and farmland was available for the few hundred people we had managed to bring together. With people more spread out and not jammed on top of one another, the rules of an armed camp under siege were relaxed, and there seemed much less need for a formal government. The concept of government—and the even more alien ideas of a state or nation—was one I had come across in old books, but I had a lot of trouble understanding exactly what it meant. And except for a tiny bit of reflected glow from the fireworks and celebration of "freedom" that we still have on the Fourth of July, I've always gotten the impression that government isn't something
from the former world that the older people miss very much.
But if the older folks were stuck in the old world, while we younger people were completely a part of the new, I think it was hardest of all on those just a little older than myself, just old enough to remember that the dead once lay still, old enough to remember their parents and others being torn apart in fountains and pools of their own blood, or dying slow deaths from the infection or starvation. When I looked at my slightly older peers, I saw the kind of ghosts that were the strongest and most bitter, the kind that didn't live in your mind or even your heart, but in your bones. I could be happy, or at least content with the new world; my parents could be regretful or resigned to it. But for the people in between, for the people whose childhood had been interrupted by the rising of the dead, the effect seemed much more lasting, deep, and alienating.
A few people were in this age group, the generation between me and my parents, people like Will, who was a young man when the story I'm now telling took place. They had called him Popcorn when he was a boy, because they had rescued him from an abandoned movie theater, and there was this food they called popcorn that was traditionally served at movies. He was raised by Mr. Caine and Ms. Wright, and he subsequently announced that his name was Will—never William or Bill or Billy, just Will. It was a matter of some speculation whether he had christened himself this, or whether he had suddenly remembered his name from before, or even if he had known it all along and kept it secret till it suited him to reveal it.
People Will's age seemed like they could only be angry and disappointed in this new world. Their anger could either be directed towards the dead, or towards whatever concept they retained of God or the devil—it didn't seem to matter, or even to be separate in their minds—while their disappointment was most keenly and consistently directed at the living. They remembered each and every smile and kiss and embrace from the time before, and they remembered every scream and gasp from when death shattered that dream and robbed them of every hope and love they had ever had. And they never forgave, it seemed—not the dead, not the living, and most especially, not themselves. Both the older and the younger tried to love their pain away, but this seemed to be even less successful than it was with my parents' generation. My parents had lost the future as they had hoped or expected it would be, so they clung sadly to the past. People like Will saw both the future and the past as empty, meaningless, and painful—a broken promise from a cruel stepmother, a betrayed vow from a wanton and faithless lover—and they often lived just in the present, taking risks, snatching at small pleasures, seldom speaking or getting close to others. Or so it seemed to me then.
It was not surprising that Will began to accompany Milton into the wilderness to help round up the dead, though he hardly seemed to get the kind of satisfaction from this job that Milton did, and of course it was much more dangerous for him, since he didn't have Milton's immunity to the ever-hungry corpses. For Milton it was a service both to the community and to the zombies, or as he called them, "our dead brothers and sisters." For Will, it was an escape from the living, to be among a group for which he had no more affection, but which were, in a way, much better company for him, for they were quiet, unquestioning, uncomprehending, and most of all—so long as one could avoid their hideous and voracious jaws—utterly undemanding. Perhaps it was for the best, though I still wonder if it was either necessary or good for Will to spend so much time among the living dead.
The other thing that makes memories not so funny in the humorous way is that sometimes people hide their memories from you, even if those memories involve you directly. I've found this with my mom and dad. I've always—as far back as I can remember—noticed that my dad looks at me differently than my mom does. With her, the love is not only unrestrained, it's exuberant and inquisitive and joyful. With him, though his gaze was always as unconditional and even passionate as hers, there was something about it that was not exactly held back or guarded, but something that expected and even wanted me to be cold and guarded and in control—around everyone, but towards him most of all. My mom would do anything to protect me; my dad would trust me to protect him or anyone else. I'd say it was a father-daughter thing, except that Jonah has always looked at me the same way as my dad does, so I'm almost positive they know something about me or my biological dad that no one else does.
It's almost like they have treated me or expected me to be like Milton, with a special power or insight, but I know I don't have that. I've seen the dead, and they look at me just like they look at everyone else, with uncaring and uncontrollable desire, and I get just as queasy and scared around them as anyone else. I sometimes wished I could just ask my dad or Jonah what they were thinking when they looked at me that way, but I always knew I wouldn't, I wasn't sure they would tell me anyway, and I was pretty sure that I didn't want to know.
And that leads me to a memory I was thinking of again this morning, for about the millionth time. It led me to think more about memories and how they work and why they matter and why I might want to write down those from my twelfth year before they flit away or mutate or whatever it was that happened to this other, older memory. This memory—which I think is my earliest recollection of anything in my life—is that I'm playing freeze tag with a bunch of other little kids, all of us about four years old. We are playing in a large field. It's hot and sunny, but in a nice way—not uncomfortable, but just perfect and invigorating. Bugs—not the kind that bother you, like flies and mosquitoes, but moths and butterflies and dragonflies and even an occasional bee-zip and bounce over the grass, which is pretty tall compared to us little kids, above our waists. There is a line of trees edging the field. I am frozen, waiting for someone to tag me and unfreeze me. I look back over my shoulder, and I see the adults farther away, under a big tree out in the field. They have the tailgate down on a pickup truck and they're getting food out for everyone. My dad turns toward me, and I see his face, see it change from the expectant and happy look he usually has with me to fright. He shouts something, but I can't make it out. He runs to the front of the truck and fumbles under the seat, then he runs toward me. I see he has a gun in his hand, a big pistol. Now he's shouting and waving, but I still can't understand what he wants.
That's when I hear something else, like a dry whisper, incoherent but so insistent. It's almost like the wind through the city streets, filling up the dead places between the empty buildings. But this is closer, quieter. And most of all, I know as soon as I hear it that this sound is personal, intimate, meant only for me. I turn and the dead man whispering his inhuman desire for me is right on top of me. He's naked, dry, scabbed, scarred, and withered. He grabs my bicep at the same moment I start to scream and try to pull away. His mouth opens as he leans down—grey, mostly toothless, the tongue wriggling obscenely. I twist myself around and turn from him, screaming more loudly and shrilly, but there's no getting my arm free. I hear the shot and the dead man's nose and eyes disappear, a ragged hole in his face. The mouth is still there, but now it's silent and the tongue isn't moving. The dead man turns slightly and collapses next to me, but the hand is still clamped on my arm. I thrash about, not looking, not thinking, just screaming and writhing, and now the hand's grip finally loosens slightly and its long, blackened nails are dragging down my arm, scratching me. I throw my head back and howl with a mixture of rage and revulsion and relief as my whole tiny body springs back and away, landing at my dad's feet.
This is one of those things that I think I remember, but I'm not sure. I think if I asked my dad, I could find out whether this memory was real, but I don't want to. I don't ask. I never have. I think I remember a moment of perfect, carefree joy, and I think I remember a moment of sudden and extreme terror. I want to hold on to both—to the possibility of both, not the certainty. To be certain of the horror that afternoon would be too much for me to bear, I know it would be; it would expand and grow till it blocked out everything good and beautiful I've ever had. To be certain and convinced that such a horribl
e scene never happened would be a lie and would further shut me off from those like my parents and Will who know they've seen such things, many times over, and much worse. To be certain of the joy would be to fall back into the ingratitude I mentioned before, to take for granted or pretend I deserved such bliss—then, now, or ever. To know for certain it had never happened would again be too much for me to bear. So I hold the both of them in this perfectly balanced, perfectly uncertain memory, one that I've never shared with anyone until now.
As I say, it's funny the things you remember, and funnier still the things you think you remember. And funniest of all? To be—not just to have, mind you, but to actually be—such a willing, willful collection of memories, sometimes choosing and sometimes refusing to choose from among all the things you think you remember. But that is what I am, and I suspect it's what you are too, if you'd admit it. My name is Zoey—survivor and heir of a dead world. And these are my memories of one tiny part of my life.
Chapter 2
This is my journal. My name is Wade Truman, though I didn't know that for a long time. There are a lot of things I don't know so well, even now. I do know how to type, for some reason, but I don't seem to know as many words as I think I should. I try to learn new ones, but it's hard for me to study. I lose concentration or something happens to distract me. All my memories start a few years ago, yet I'm sure I existed before that, because when my memories start, I already knew lots of things, just not perfectly, and all the different ideas and memories—if that's what they are—don't necessarily connect. So it seems like I've remembered all sorts of complicated things and words, but forgotten some very basic and necessary things, like how to walk right. And how to talk.
I remember the first time I tried to talk. It is, in fact, almost my first memory, right from when I first awoke, lying on my back on the pavement. The concrete felt hard and warm on my back. But inside I felt cold. I had no idea where I was. I heard sirens and gunfire in the distance, and closer to me, this low moaning punctuated with growls and wails. I sat up. I could see blood all over me and all around me, and there were people around me, and they were all bloody too. They held their red, dripping hands up to their mouths and they slurped and chewed as they eyed me and growled.
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